Starvation
by nesza
Summary: A week of torture and hunger made Cloud miss out even the most obvious and important of facts. Cleris.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own ff7, as everyone knows.

**Author's Notes:** Written for the CxA challenge under the theme_ starvation_. It is set some time before the actual DoC timeline.

For those who hasn't played DoC (like me): The Deepground soldiers are members of an army of superhuman warriors, the shadow of the Shinra Company, constructed by the former president. Tsviets are the elite group of DG soldiers.

Read and enjoy!

* * *

**Starvation**

The darkness descended all over the Corel desert, the moonlight shining upon the corpses that lay atop each other. More than half a hundred Deepground Soldiers perished that afternoon, all by the Ultima Weapon's blade. The deaths, however, were not in vain. Cloud Strife, the planet's savior, was captured on a Friday afternoon.

He woke up on a Sunday, head throbbing in pain, hands linked together by cuffs that had long chafed the skin in his wrists. Covered in dirt all over, it was difficult to lift the eyelids where his blood had dried. The cold floor was biting into his skin, his clothes offering no sufficient protection. Mako blue eyes tried to focus in the darkness. The only source of light in the dark stone cell was a tiny window, more like a slit, near the ceiling.

"You're awake." He suddenly became aware of another person's presence in the cell.

Instinctively, he motioned to get the buster sword that was absent from his back. Realizing that he was unarmed, he lunged forward, grabbing the other man by the neck and keeping his grip tight and firm to serve as warning.

"Please, please don't kill me," came a woman's pleading voice. He became aware that the other presence in the room was indeed an unarmed woman. He quickly let go and retreated back to his corner.

"Sorry..." he muttered an apology.

He pressed his back towards the cold hard wall and closed his eyes. He tried to accustom himself to the pain in the hopes that it will eventually go away.

The woman retreated to the opposite corner, clutching her neck. She kept her eyes on his silhouette.

"Cloud?" she asked.

His eyes shot open at this.

"Cloud Strife? Of Avalanche?"

"Who are you? How do you know me?" he asked.

A chuckle escaped her lips. "You're a war hero, of course I'll know who you are."

"Didn't think I was magazine material," he deadpanned. "You, who are you?"

"Does it matter? I'm just another prisoner."

No, it didn't matter. What was the use of a name in their situation anyway?

"What did you do? Why are you here?" he asked, feigning curiosity.

She hugged her legs to her chest. "Same as you, I'm trying to help the planet regenerate."

"World Regeneration Organization? You're one of Reeve's?"

She shrugged, "you can say that."

Neither spoke for a while until he eventually broke the silence.

"Those bastards, to even think I'd consider," he muttered. Having Jenova's cells within him warranted the desire of every hybrid species to convert him. The Deepground Soldiers were no exception. They believed he was the next Sephiroth, demanded his strength and cooperation. They were terrible with their means of negotiation.

"Your friends are going to come for us, right? We'll be free soon enough," she seemed hopeful.

He pounded his head hard on the wall, tried to see if it will numb out the pain. It didn't. He wasn't sure what they did to him after he passed out but whatever it was, it sure was painful as hell. He felt like his head was about to explode and bile was rising up his gut.

He was first hand witness to how cruel and violent the soldiers were. Waiting was not exactly their best option. "If we're still alive by then."

"Or we can always try to escape," she said.

"Really? How?" his tone was mocking.

She bit her lower lip in silence. She obviously did not have a definite plan.

Her lack of response made him chuckle. And choke. He tried what he can to keep from lurching out the bile that had gone up his throat.

Silence permeated the four stone walls. She watched him intently with curiosity while he, on the other hand, tried to stay as still as possible to keep his pains tolerable. He couldn't tell how much time passed before the metal doors opened and hard, calloused hands dragged him out.

* * *

He woke up again early on a Monday but neither he nor the woman cradling his head on her lap knew what day it was. He was shivering, had his hands held to his chest and had long broken into a cold sweat. His eyes were on fire, teeth teetering in the cold. Only grunts came out when he tried to speak and the young lady placed a comforting hand over his forehead.

"Don't waste your energy, your fever is too high as it is."

She helped him sit up, allowing him to press his back on the wall.

"You haven't eaten anything in days. Here, eat this." She took the stainless tray that contained the shit that the DG soldiers passed off as prison food. "It tastes terrible but it's better than starving to death," she said, taking a chunk of food in her hands and hovering it near his mouth. He didn't move for a long time before he accepted and ate from her hands. In his state, it was better to eat from a stranger's hand than to die.

She wasn't kidding when she said it tasted terrible. He almost spitted it out the moment it touched his tongue. His instinct to quench the need of his revolting stomach won, however, and he forced the bitter lump down his throat.

"That's good, Cloud," she cheered him on. "Now there's more. Try not to throw up, you need to regain your strength."

She fed him and held the glass of water to his lips. He tried to look at her, tried to see how his good Samaritan looked like but he couldn't see enough of her. There was not enough light to see her clearly with.

"T...thank you," he murmured.

"Don't thank me, I'm sure you would have done the same for me," she told him. "I promise I'm not letting you die here," she assured him but it was all a haze of sounds in his head. He was feeling so weak, even his eyelids felt like they were loaded with bags of bricks. He opened his mouth to say something but it came out gibberish.

She gingerly placed her fingers over his brows. "Just close your eyes... and think of someplace else...of a land of happiness...anywhere but here."

He did not protest, the prospect of rest was way more appealing. He found himself thinking of a flower field.

* * *

For two days, he fell in and out of consciousness. His fever had escalated to the point of delirium. She did what she can to help him recover faster, which was not really much since all they got were scanty rations of one meal a day and there was never enough water to quench his thirst. She had given him her jacket, had placed it over his shivering arms when he was asleep. She fed him, held him to keep him warm at night and talked to him cheerfully during the few instances he was awake.

She would tell him stories, stories of her adventures, of the wonderful Costa del Sol beaches and its white sands. She told him of a place atop the desert filled with fireworks, lights and laughter. She told him about the strange birds near Wutai, the ones that were difficult to kill and impossible to catch alive.

He listened. He listened to the stories he couldn't remember and could never recall. Her voice soothed him, made the turmoil within his body a bit tolerable. Her voice served as a reminder that he was alive, that he was not going crazy after all. So he listened and she spoke.

Sometimes during the day, the light would permit him to see glimpses of her. Never of her as a whole, only a piece of her at a time. Her worn out boots. Her worker's hands. The fabric of her stained dress. Strands of her long hair. A pair of warm eyes.

She looked familiar, almost similar to someone he knew. But he couldn't quite remember the name of that person, or how exactly she looked like and thinking about it in his state of delirium just made his head hurt all the more and his empty stomach turn. So he simply stopped trying to recall, already contented with the sense of familiarity she brought.

He noted she smelled like flowers in the spring.

* * *

He was feeling better by Thursday morning. It was a wonder how quickly he recovered. Mako enhancements can really do wonders to one's body. He could already sit up and eat on his own. He could already talk and stand up to try his luck with trying to break down the door, the one part of the cell that sounded and felt like metal instead of stone. Hunger, however, was taking its toll. He was slower, weaker, and his head ached all the time that it was a pain just to think and try to remember.

There was not much to do to kill time and to keep their thoughts away from their churning stomachs. They were silent most of the time, permitting each other the chance to sleep or to quietly think. Sometimes they talked. They talked about trivial things, anything to keep themselves from wallowing in the stinking condition they were put in. Secretly, in their opposite corners, they would observe each other, guessed what the other was doing and they were getting pretty good at it.

She knew whenever he cringed in pain whenever his questing fingers touched the wounds and bruises on his face. He knew when she was smiling, he could feel it in the sudden change in the atmosphere. He wondered why she was always smiling, perhaps she was always reminiscing good memories, or perhaps she had gone deranged. The reasons for her smiles remained a mystery.

She was talkative, always telling him of her hopes of escape and sometimes, when she thought he was asleep, she would sing. And he liked listening to her songs as it brought comfort and always lulled him to sleep.

"What are you going to do when we get out?" she asked once.

_Kill them all_, he thought. Somehow, though, he felt embarrassed to tell her this for the woman across him seemed to have not even one violent bone in her body. "I will stop them," he settled for that answer.

"The Deepground Soldiers?"

"Yes," he said. "They are bent on destroying the world, I can never allow them to succeed."

He felt her smile at this. "And then, when it's over, what will you do?"

And then...go back to work. What was left to do? He had rent to pay and a bike to maintain. He had a family to protect too.

"Go back to work," he answered after some thought. "I'm a delivery man," he added.

"Strife Delivery, I've heard of it."

"Business was thriving before I got into this mess," he remarked. "I was on my way to back to Edge. I promised Marlene I'd be there for her birthday. Even bought her a present. She must be so mad at me by now."

"I'm sure she'll understand when you tell her why," she told him.

"I hope," he shrugged. "You, what will you do when we get out?"

She thought for a while. "I don't know. I don't really have any place to go."

"When we get out, I'll take you to Edge. It's not exactly the best place to go, it's a poor place but..."

She smiled. "I'd love to go there."

"The kids will love you," he murmured. "You're...somehow I think you're so much like _her."_

* * *

He was again taken from his cell, Friday night. He returned three hours later with a broken rib and bleeding hands. He was cursing madly in stark rage. He was thrown into the cell, still in a fit, trying to land a couple of punches to the soldiers who carried him. He banged his hands and feet on the door, screamed strings of profanity in utter fury.

"Fucking bastards, I'd fucking kill you all. Motherfucking scoundrels! I'd kill you all! I'd fucking kill you all..." he went on and on.

He finally sat down defeatedly, tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn't have the heart to look at his hands, afraid of the truth that he will see. He had been beaten up and tortured before but it had never been this painful. Now, they had driven nails through his hands, had made it certain that it would be years before he can use a sword again...or perhaps, never. His skills were effectively rendered useless. He knew there was no way he could fight.

In the darkness, two thin arms wrapped around him from behind as he cried.

* * *

He woke up with his head on her lap, her hand gently running through the damp strands of his hair. She had fixed him again, he could feel the smooth fabric wrapped tightly on both his hands. She had wiped the dirt and blood off his face, had earlier lulled him to sleep just so he could forget.

She was awfully quiet. Whether she knew he was already awake, she didn't show. She was staring up, up at the small window that never let enough light in. Sorrow hung in the air, permeating the stone walls and basking in the silence they had created.

He lifted a hand to his face and watched the way his fingers curled. "I...I wouldn't be able to stop them after all," he said with bitterness in his voice.

She didn't say a word.

He stared up at her and wondered where her comforting words had gone. He lifted his hand, tentatively placing his fingers on her cheek to confirm his suspicions.

It was wet with her tears.

A new type of discomfort suddenly assaulted him. Somehow it didn't matter that his bones were broken or that his hands were useless. Somehow, the mere thought that she was crying was far more terrible, far more painful than any torment he had received.

"I...I'm sorry," he apologised for whatever grief he had brought.

She looked at him, warm green eyes staring at bright blue eyes. She smiled at him. With tears streaming down her face, she smiled. Even though he could hardly see her in the darkness, to him she looked beautiful. So beautiful indeed.

And as her tears spilled, so did the rain cry in grief.

* * *

Before the Saturday sun could rise, they heard explosions and felt the floor tremble. Strong rough hands tore him off her and dragged him out. They had tied him up in the same poles that were witnesses to their cruelty over and over again. He could see madness in their eyes, anger resonating in their every word.

They said he was a disgrace, unfit to live, he deserved to die. They had raised their blades and he was certain of his death, thoughts of seeing a green-eyed maiden already filling his mind. He knew _she_ would be waiting, surely _she_ would be waiting.

Gunshots rang and the blade to pierce his heart was dropped. Barret. Tifa. Yuffie. Cid. His friends had come for him. He watched as bodies fell to the ground. The distinct smell of blood filled the air. Tifa helped him out of his chains, told him that it was going to be alright. They had to hurry before the other Tsviets came.

"In my cell, we have to go back. We have to save her," he whispered to Tifa.

She agreed and they made their way back, his gut revolting with every step he took. He found the room empty, not a trace of the woman who took care of him.

"We have to friggin' go back now, Cloud," Cid told him. "She must have already escaped."

But the door had been shut before they came in. Barret had to waste a round of bullets just so it would open.

"No, she couldn't possibly escape...where have they taken her?" Cloud said in worry. "I have to find her. Where have they taken her?" He started his way out the door and walked the haunting corridors in a limp. The alarm sound was deafening and the red lights were causing pains in his head. With every second they lingered, the more dangerous it is to escape.

"If we don't go now, we'll die here," Tifa ran after him. "Look at you, you're not well."

He had to save her. He told her he was taking her to Edge, they planned an escape together, there was no way he was leaving her there. He shook his head at Tifa, "No, I have to save her. She's coming with us."

"You leave me no choice, kid," he heard Cid mutter before he saw a green flash and was magically put into a deep slumber.

* * *

Cloud Strife looked at himself in the mirror, noted how thin he had become. It was only a week yet his cheeks had already sunk considerably. Cuts covered his face, one of his eyes was still bloody red. He stared at his hands. Blood had soaked the fabric that hid the holes of failure in his hands. He swallowed hard before he started to unwrap it, bracing himself to look at the wounds that they had given him.

He took the bandage off his left hand and was surprised at what he saw. There were no wounds, no holes, no scratches to mark the wounds that should have been there. He quickly unwrapped his other hand, almost tearing the cloth off. There was nothing. He examined both of his hands and saw no holes to gape at. He took the sword beside him, gripped it tight and slashed the air before him in perfect stance. He realized his hands were as woundless and strong as the day he killed Sephiroth.

He wondered if he dreamed it all...but there were the cuts on his face, the pain in his ribs, the bruises all over his body...

He returned his gaze towards the table, took the cloth that she had carefully wrapped over his hands. A pink ribbon for one hand. A torn off fabric of a pink dress for the other one. It smelled of flowers and blood. His lips shivered at the realization.

It all came back to him now. How she always smelled of flowers, how her stories seemed so familiar, how comfortable he was with her from the start.

He held the fabric tightly in his hands. _So, it was you..._

"Thank you," he murmured to the wind, lips curving slightly in a smile.

A knock on the door woke him from his daze. The door opened and in came Tifa with a bowl of soup in hand. "I brought food, you must be starving," she said, smiling warmly at him.

With an almost imperceptible smile on his face and tears forming in his eyes, he lifted his hand to show her the blood-stained ribbon. She immediately understood. In the one week he was held captive, although he was severely tortured and in pain, never before was he more safe.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Reviews will be very much appreciated. 


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